CRATER | Robert Landry

‘Because we now refuse to deny the direct dependence and responsibility of art vis-à-vis reality, and on the other hand see no chance for art as we know it to have an effect, there is only one possibility left: failure.’

ALBERT OEHLEN

ODAY, cryptic pronouncements to the effect that Painting is Dead circulate like dirty water around a drain. What distinguishes that of Oehlen is its irony. To be exact, he says ‘art’ but it is hard to escape the sense that his concerns center on the two-dimensional. One circuit around, say, the Broad Museum past some of his work, and it is apparent he has purposely taken us to the edge of an abyss and gone ahead and driven over it, only to have us come out the other side, to the sudden realization that his response to the bad news is to shrug, and continue to work. This is a brilliant maneuver.

I don’t know if I can match Oehlen’s virtuosity, but often I too feel condemned to produce a series of magnificent failures, especially since the electronic vortex has swallowed the known universe of imagery whole, regurgitated it as a vast unmanageable torrent, and now carries us along with it. I’m not exactly swimming free. It’s not even an option. If anything, I’m adding to the flood. More paintings, more work piling up. With a digital stream to complicate matters.

The curse of postmodernity is its two-faced nature. We are aware of ourselves, tirelessly chasing our aspirations while simultaneously disdaining consumption. One face of complicity, one face of critique. It’s exhausting to realize we can’t help but be products of our time, even as we make fitful attempts to engage with it on our own terms. But we can’t continually be cowed by a sense that we haven’t been given much of a choice. The only thing left is to temporarily set aside the paradox and pick up a paint brush, or a shiny new wireless mouse.

PALM SPRINGS, SUMMER 2018